Today Underground City crossed the 35,000 mark. That’s one-third done. And a struggle every step of the way. Some days I feel I can’t do better than to just get words on the electronic page, no matter how bad they may be, so long as they advance the plot. I have eight weeks left. I must perform or I’m dead. But this isn’t entirely new–I’ve run up to the wire before.
This is the first time I have ever understood the sentiments of the “pantsers” who don’t outline because it “kills the story” for them. I feel like I’m mailing this in from Poughkeepsie. I labor for every word, every page, and have a hard time meeting the daily goal of 2,000 words/10,000 per week. It’s never been this hard before–and it’s not so much hard as annoying. I feel like I’m not saying anything new and that I’m missing even the reiteration of the good bits from before. I want to kill the whole lot of characters off. I hate them all.
And then I had a lovely little scene in the Big Picture. Which was cool and many thanks to Elisabeth who suggested it and Louise Marley who blogged the actual date in question so I could double-check.
But I still feel like I bled for every word.
Next time, I shall set my story in a fictional town, in a vaguely parallel world so I can break the laws of physics without feeling like a criminal and put the buildings where I want them and say what I like about the founding fathers and current captains of industry with impunity. And when I am done, I shall set them on fire and giggle madly as they go up in smoke.
Shall I feel bad? No, shall not. I shall have another drink and toast bread over their pyre.
Oh merry hell… I still have 80,000 words to do. Where’s a match…?
(posted under the influence.)